


The Good Boy

by bibliothekara



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Episode Related, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-17
Updated: 2011-01-17
Packaged: 2017-10-14 20:24:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliothekara/pseuds/bibliothekara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Waverly, Iowa, 1999, a man kills two boys, only to walk away free and kill another one.”- Hotch, <i>A Real Rain. </i>Every agent has their own ghosts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> a) Waverly, Iowa does exist, and I have tried for accuracy in detail, but this version is fictional, and any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental. Especially since I have never been to Iowa.  
> b) I am completely ignoring the various timeline weirdness and decided to have Rossi, Gideon and Hotch on the team at the same time. If that or the dates bother you, just stop thinking about them. :)

Prologue

 _“The past is not dead. In fact, it’s not even past.”_  
-William Faulkner  
 **  
Clark Inn, St. Louis, Missouri, April 27 th, 2001**

 ****

 _God, I hate these swipecards. Give me a good old-fashioned skeleton key any day of the week._

             Hotel technology would not normally engender such anger in Jason Gideon. But the day’s events had produced no patience for anything, let alone recalcitrant inanimate objects. Better they bear the brunt of his frustration with this week’s unsub, then some other more sentient being.

             Every single lead, that their efforts and those of the St. Louis County Sheriff’s Office had produced, steadfastly refused to pan out. Not a single one had proved useful, and it looked like it would be a long night trying to get two new inches off of Square One.  Dinner before plunging back in would be essential. But after twenty minutes, the usually reliable Hotch had still not emerged from their room to join the rest of the team in the lobby.

             Jason would almost have considered chewing him out, if he thought it would have done any good. The younger man had been oddly distracted this week. Nothing to the point of interfering with his work; the insights had come as quietly and as solidly as they usually did. And it would only be to those that knew him well that Aaron Hotchner appeared unusually quiet.

            A satisfying beep finally emitted from the card scanner, and Gideon entered the room he and Hotch had been sharing.           

            “Hotch?”

            The bed, unmade. A file folder empty, its contents spread out, almost viciously, across the floor. Hotch’s go bag, unzipped and rifled through. The hotel phone off the hook. Something was wrong.

            “Hotch? Are you in here?”

            What was that sound? The shower. Why shower right now? After nearly three years of working with the man, and as many rooming with him in myriad hotel rooms of varying quality, Jason knew Hotch’s routine. And this was not it.

            “Hotch, what the hell are you doing in the shower? We’re supposed to meet the rest of the team for dinner…well, now.”

            No response.

            “Hotch, are you all right?”

            Still nothing.

            “Hotch, I’m going to open the bathroom door now, okay?”

            Gideon gently eased the bathroom door open.

            The steam of a long, hot shower filled the bathroom, but through it Jason could see a tall figure, sitting in the stall. 

            It was Hotch, still in suit jacket and slacks, soaking under the spray of the showerhead.

            Gideon opened the glass door, turned off the shower, and knelt down gently in front of his friend, until the two of them were each at eye level. “Aaron. Aaron, look at me, please.”

            Two dark eyes slowly returned his gaze, and Gideon almost flinched at the abyss of sorrow he saw there.

            “Do you know where you are?”

            “St. Louis.”

            “Are you hurt? Are you sick?”

            “No.”

            “Why are you in the shower?”

            Confusion now. “I…I don’t know.”

            A blackout? A stroke? Gideon’s mind spun frightening scenarios, and his hand rested on his cell phone, Jenna’s number on the second speed dial.

            “Aaron, please, let me help. What happened?”

            Hotch looked down again. And when he replied, it was not as much a word as a sob.

            "Waverly."  
   


 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Waverly, Iowa, 1999, a man kills two boys, only to walk away free and kill another one.”- Hotch, _A Real Rain._ Every agent has their own ghosts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

For some reason, he and livestock just didn’t get along, Jason Gideon decided, looking down at the nanny goat currently chewing on the cuff of his trousers.  He could deal with all sorts of domestic animals: cats, dogs, hamsters, fish, even the occasional snake. But this job inevitably took one to isolated, rural areas, and that meant farmers, and that meant cows, pigs, sheep and, today, goats. He and farms had never been a good fit. He didn’t know why, it wasn’t like there was some deep dark incident in his past involving lambs. But farms were just one of the many things in his life that he did not do that well.

            
  Thank God for Aaron Hotchner, he decided. The rookie SSA continued to reveal new facets of himself daily, and today’s was apparently to be his ease with farm animals. While Jason attempted to extricate himself from the goat’s clutches, Hotch had worked some sort of Virginian magick on the homestead’s affectionate border collie, who according to her collar was named Louise. Hotch, therefore, had made it significantly closer to the home of Ms. Janet  Leeward, widow.  27 Linnet Lane had also been the home of Ricky Leeward, known now in FBI records as Victim No. 2.

Victim No. 1, Mark Brentano, had sent the small, peaceful Iowa town of Waverly into a tailspin. The discovery of Ricky’s body, two days ago, brought the normally bustling population of 9, 000 to a near standstill. The discovery had also sent the BAU jet into Cedar Rapids as if on a frozen rope.  As Gideon and Hotch drove down Waverly’s winding country roads on a sunny Saturday afternoon, there was nary a sound to be heard. No echoes of laughter or play, only a few dogs barking. Two of the town’s children were dead, and Waverly was confused and terrified.

Finally removing his slacks from the goat’s hungry maw, Gideon reviewed what little they did know. Two boys, both 14 years old, both white, both found in wooded areas. _Different_ wooded areas, however; on the exact opposite ends of town.  Found nearly naked, except for their underwear. Raped, and then strangled with a fine ligature, possibly some kind of wire.  And yet, apart from the sexual assault, the bodies themselves were nearly pristine.  Whoever had killed Mark and Ricky had not _dumped_ them, in the  cruel way Gideon had seen too many times before. They had been laid upon the moss carefully, almost gently; and, in each case, their hands placed over their eyes. To shield them? To shield himself? Still unknown.  But this was not a crime of rage; in his sick way, the unsub loved these boys.  Gideon didn’t know if that made it better or worse.

  
“Found your footing?”  “Now, come on, Hotch, we don’t all have your Doctor Doolittle touch.”  “I think she liked you.”   “Nah, I get that from all the goats.” That got a smile out of the younger agent. Gideon had worried during the first week or so after Hotchner arrived that the young agent was physically incapable of the act. But after a month or so, Gideon had made an enjoyable discovery. Their newbie profiler had a dry, but wicked, sense of humor.  It had unsettled Dave Rossi a little bit, that much was clear, but he too had begun to come around. Katie Cole’s departure had roiled the seas of the BAU, but Aaron Hotchner was just the bromide to calm them.

Gideon and Hotch reached the porch of the Leeward house together, and Jason raised his hand to knock on the door, when it apparently opened of its own volition. The tear-stained face of Janet Leeward stared out at them.

  
“Mrs. Leeward?”

  
 “ I heard Louise barking. You’re…”

  
“Agents Gideon and Hotchner, from the FBI, ma’am. “

  
“Yes, John told me he had called you.  You want to ask me some questions.”

It was not a question, but a statement. No affect. This woman had seen too much, and had no will left to fight anymore. What had not been ripped from her by her husband’s death, she had poured into her son. And now Ricky, as well, had been taken from her.

   
Hotch was the first to venture a question. “Ricky disappeared three days ago?”  
  “Yes. They called me the next morning when they found him. Last time I heard his voice, he called, that night. Said Coach Rowe was making ‘em all stay late, because of the sloppy play against Davenport last week. Said he might go get dinner at the Millers.”       

 

     “This is his friend, Brandon Miller?”

  
“ Best friends since kindergarten. …Brandon would come eat dinner over here, or Ricky would have burgers and mashed potatoes over at the Millers. Every week, every fall, since they were both in Pop Warner.”

That seemed to break the somber mood. The thought of tiny shoulder pads and oversized helmets briefly brought Janet Leeward out of her catatonia. She smiled. And then, as quickly as it appeared, it passed.

  “Did you talk to Brandon too?”

 “No, and Ricky got called away from the phone. It was noisy in the background. Like, he was calling from that pay phone near the field. I’d know those sounds anywhere.“

 That sparked Gideon’s interest. Mark Brentano had called his parents, saying he was staying late at school, that he’d take the 5:00 bus. A bus that had never picked him up.  This unsub did not snatch. He planned.

  
Hotch proceeded on. “So football was big for Ricky?”

  
 “Oh, yes. Just like his daddy. Rick was left guard, for the state champion team, back in ’78? And he put a ball in Ricky’s hand just about as soon as he could walk. But Ricky was smaller, see, and faster. So, he’s been playing wide receiver since about the age of 8. “

The young man smiled. “Yeah, you gotta watch those second graders, they’re sneaky fast. My little brother Sean always said that he could have made the NFL, if he was drafted out of Lane Elementary.”

“Ricky was just the same way. They’d lose sight of him for just a second, and whoosh, like the Road Runner, off he’d go.”

          
Gideon hated to break the reverie, but he had to. “Ms. Leeward, what about school? Was Ricky a good student?”

           
“Well, he liked his teachers well enough, and they liked him. But it never came easy. And before you say anything, it wasn’t football. Coach Rowe is always very, very strict about that kind of thing. You don’t see any lazy athletes in Waverly.”

             
 “ But he did okay?”

            
  “ C-plus, B-minus mostly. You know, we had a pizza night a couple weeks ago when he got an A-minus on his algebra test. I even bought some root beer and some vanilla ice cream… so we could make root beer floats….I’m sorry…”

As much sense as these things ever made, root beer was what broke the dam. Mrs,  Leeward’s somber visage crumpled into tears, and she closed the door.

Hotch and Gideon stood on the stoop for a moment, then wordlessly headed for the car. Time to expand their canvass to the surrounding neighborhood.

             
They reached the dingy Crown Vic that had been provided by Waverly PD.

            
  “Gideon?”

  
   “Yeah?”

             
“This doesn’t ever get easier, does it? ”

             
 “…no. But it doesn’t get much worse, if that’s any consolation.”

           
“It isn’t.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Waverly, Iowa, 1999, a man kills two boys, only to walk away free and kill another one.”- Hotch, A Real Rain. Every agent has their own ghosts.

**Waverly PD, 111 4 th Street, NE**

 

            With only 16 full-time officers serving in the City of Waverly, the Police Department was not expansive. In fact, Gideon mused, it might have been called downright cozy. But one was not likely to find a more devoted force than the one that met their eyes as they walked back in the door. Every single phone lit, every computer whirring with activity. With the murders of Ricky Leeward and Mark Brentano, this unsub had not just killed two boys. He had broached the sacred trust of small town life; a trust that these officers took very seriously.

Unit Chief Dave Rossi and SSA Jenna Plancini looked up from the file folder that had formerly held their attention. “You got a pretty good sense of Ricky Leeward, guys?” asked Rossi. Gideon’s teaching instinct kicked in. “You want to take this one, Hotchner?” Hotch perceptibly stiffened, but proceeded onward; Jason and Dave exchanged a smile.

“Ricky Leeward is…was, what people around here would call average, in the best possible sense. Well-behaved, devoted to football, not great at school, but not bad at it either.  Canvassing just supports what was clear from interviewing Janet Leeward. Ricky was shaken by his dad’s death, but it didn’t drive him away from mom and football and town life; if anything, it brought him closer. Well-adjusted, trusting; you may not see many of them, but Ricky Leeward seems to have actually been the very picture of a cornfed Iowa farm boy.”

Plancini smirked. “Well done, baby boy, we may make a profiler of you yet.”

 “I do it all for you, Jen.”

 “Oh, I know you do, but don’t think you’re off the hook  yet, my padawan learner.”

 “Of course, Master.”

            Padawan? Master? Ah, yes, Sheridan and Plancini had had their annual Star Wars viewing last week. Looks like they had roped Hotch in this time. Good thing, too. While Hotch’s marriage to that nice girl…Hallie? No, Haley, that was her name…while the marriage seemed happy, Gideon didn’t get the sense that Hotch had much of a social life. Haley and the job, utterly devoted to both, and not much in between.

 However, if anyone could draw Hotch out of that shell, Jenna Plancini could. She  may have made her bones (so to speak) in the notably tough crowd of the Newark  PD’s gang unit, but Jenna had a boisterous, Jersey girl ebullience. Countless cold and grueling hours walking the Newark projects, and nearly 5 years in the BAU, had not yet managed to grind that out of her. She seemed to take special pleasure in pushing the buttons of her more sedate colleagues, so the shy Hotchner had been a godsend. Fortunately, Hotch had been revealed to give as good as he got.

            “Okay, okay, ‘Cina, Hotch, break it up, settle down.”

             “You got it, boss.” 

            Rossi had the reputation of  having been a cowboy back in his older days, and Gideon still got glimpses now and then. But Dave usually managed to achieve some level of supervisory control. When he was assured of the floor, Rossi started in.

            “Well, as far as Ricky Leeward may have been to one end of the spectrum, Mark Brentano was at the other.”

            “Troublemaker?”

            “Farthest from it. Put simply, Mark? Was a nerd.  Learned to read at the age of 4 and a half. Got into the town’s Gifted and Talented program in the fourth grade. He got good marks in everything, but especially in math.”

            “How good?”

            “Well, put it this way, he only started at Waverly-Shell Rock High a month ago, but he’s already taking honors level sophomore classes.”

            “Wow. “

             “And, like Ricky Leeward, he seems to have been preternaturally well behaved. Played the trumpet, was an altar boy at the 9th Avenue Episcopal Church, and got along splendidly with his parents.”

            Hotch wrinkled his brow. “So, they may have shared the same schools since kindergarten, but other than that they seem to have moved in completely different activities, social circles, spheres of influence.”

            “Seems that way, yes.”

             “And, even in a town of 9, 000, their acquaintance doesn’t go anywhere past bumping shoulders in the school hallway.”

            Of course, some one had to ask the question, and Jenna, with her usual candor and aplomb, did. “So we have two boys, same age, same race, with seemingly nothing in common except spotless attendance records. Where does that leave us with the victimology?”

            “Not especially anywhere,” Gideon  replied. “ It makes the unsub…most likely male, most probably in his later 30s, early forties.”  Jenna jumped in:  “Due to the age of the boys, and the fact that it would take more power to subdue them?”

              “Not necessarily…age cohort is a unique thing with pedophiles, preference as much as pragmatism.”

             “But, 14 is young enough. On the cusp between high school and middle school, it’s likely more about the sexual attraction, versus the power dynamic that would be more at play with an unsub under 30, right? ” She looked to Rossi.

“Right. All pedophiles have preferences. But that preference only takes you so far, and with victims with as little in common as Ricky and Mark, I would usually go with opportunity. But what did the unsub see in both of these kids, other than the fact that they were…there?”

            “They were good boys.”

            Gideon, Rossi and Plancini all looked over in unison to Hotch, who had been sitting quietly on the outskirts of the conversation.

“That’s what we heard from everybody in the canvass near the Leeward farm. ‘He was such a good kid.’ ‘his mama’s little angel.’ ‘took care of her after his daddy died.’ Not even a ball through a neighbor’s window. ”

The wheels started to obviously turn behind Rossi’s eyes. “ Pretty much what we heard from the Brentano canvass, too. Nothing out of the ordinary, not even now, when you’d expect teenagers of either sex to be at their worst.”

An image popped into Gideon’s mind, bidden or unbidden. “Saint Sebastian.” And though he knew Jenna’s Catholicism had been lapsed for a long time, she apparently remembered enough to finish his thought: “The beautiful young man, martyred to the pagan excesses of the Romans.” They were all silent for a moment, and then Hotch brought it in for a landing:  “The crime scenes weren’t dump sites; they were shrines, with these boys as the centerpieces.”

            At that moment, the phone did its level best to break their concentration.

            “Hey guys. It’s Sheridan, down at the County Coroner. I’ve got something you should see.”

*********


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Waverly, Iowa, 1999, a man kills two boys, only to walk away free and kill another one.”- Hotch, _A Real Rain._ Every agent has their own ghosts.

**Bremer County Coroner's Office**

 

Gideon did not happen to be of the opinion that if you had seen one small town morgue, you had seen them all. But there were certain things that held the morbid comfort of the familiar. That smell, for instance. That tang of formaldahyde and disinfectant. Letting one know that though the living might tarry here a while, this room was the domain of the dead.

            
  Sad then, that too often (once  being  “often enough” in his book), he found himself in these cold rooms, staring down at the small and fragile bodies of children. “Often enough” had first come for him, what, twelve years ago now? Orono, Maine, and three little girls, the oldest no more than seven.  He had learned to manage, then, or soon after. But looking to his side, the realization swept over him that this would be Hotch’s first. The lucky bastard had managed his first 6 months without a child victim showing up on the BAU’s desk.  Alas, _et in Arcadia ego._

Sheridan, Jenna and Dave were talking as normal across the metal gurney containing what had once been Ricky Leeward. Gideon noticed Hotch staring over at the far table, at the mortal remains of Mark Brentano. He nudged the young man’s arm gently, and Hotch turned, almost guiltily, to the discussion at hand.  But, before Sheridan began to speak to the room at large, Jason spotted Hotch’s eyes dart once more to the body, and when they returned, they were wider, and more haunted, than they had been only a moment before.

           Sheridan’s sonorous bass voice, as usual, filled the room. “Marin, the coroner, had to step out and make a call, but what he showed me is easy enough to spot , now.”

           Alex Sheridan, at 6’6” and a half, was inarguably a big man. His sheer physical presence had been his calling card during the years he spent in the Secret Service, before coming over to the Bureau. When he needed to, he could play up the fear factor. Woe betide the suspect who tried to mess around with Sheridan inside your average 8x10 interrogation room.  But as he watched Alex move tenderly around the fragile body of Ricky Leeward, Gideon was reminded that inside that seeming hulk lay a brilliant mind, and a supremely gentle heart.  “Mutt”, as he called himself, was the best possible blend of his father’s Minnesotan good will, and  “Ka Malama”, what his Hawaiian mother called a unique sort of island altruism.

“Waverly PD noticed the fine ligature marks immediately, on their ankles, and of course, around both of their necks.  Marin is certain, C.O.D. for both boys is manual asphyxiation assisted with some sort of garrote or wire. But after a few days, other things have started to come to light; look at the tinier scratches on their wrists, and the latent bruising on both kneecaps.”

Jenna  looked over at Gideon. “So they were kneeling for long periods.”  Rossi followed the train of thought: “Hands bound in front, legs out behind.” Gideon’s  stomach lurched as his mind embellished the sick tableaux this unsub had created. “As if in prayer.”

Alex moved quickly on. “Exactly. But what’s really damning? Ricky’s is still out, but Marin just showed me the tox report on Mark Brentano.”  Hotch looked as if he wanted to object: “Alex, these were ultra-straight edge kids; I mean, Mark Brentano was _actually_ an altar boy.”

“That’s the point, Hotch. They didn’t find any of your average teenage chemical aids.”

“What did they find?”

 “Ketamine; not enough to kill, but enough to make any teenage boy very pliable.”

            That threw all of them for a loop. Dave was the first to speak: “Ketamine, as in the animal tranquilizer Ketamine?”

            “Got it in one, chief. And we’re not going to know for a few more days, but I would bet you’re gonna see it in Ricky Leeward’s tox report too.” 

            Jenna piped up from her corner: “So, let me guess, the stomach contents come next.”

            Alex’s eyes sparked: “Clever girl, keep on going.”

             “Both abducted in the early evening hours, found about 12 hours after; any school lunch would be fully digested, but they found the exact same partially digested remains in Mark and Ricky.”

            “ Mushroom pizza, onion rings, and some sort of diet Cola.”

            “Which is where the Ketamine comes in.”

            Hotch looked over at both bodies. “So, no defensive wounds on either of them, pizza in their stomachs, and dumped in two separate wooded areas at a non-walkable distance from their school.” He paused. “The Ketamine wasn’t how he got them in the car. The Ketamine was how he kept them there. This was a mentor. Someone whom no one would blink at them talking with after school.”  Gideon noticed the young man swallowing hard, but Hotch continued.  “ Someone they would get in a car with for a ride home. This was someone they trusted.“ Hotch suddenly seemed very interested in the laces of his shoes.

            Rossi grabbed hold of the conversation. “We need to get back to PD immediately, tell them we’re not looking for someone on the normal sex offender list. This is not opportunity; this is preference, and he’s been doing this for a while. He wields power over these boys, and when he’s offended before, he’s used his position to cover it up.”             Jenna’s noise wrinkled. “Like Father Fortune in Ireland? Are we looking for a pedophile priest who’s escalated to murder?”

             Sheridan shook his head;  “Not with they were found. This guy is religious, but he wants privacy that even a church can’t give him. Like an ancient mystery rite, and the boys are the sacrifices.”

 “Mark was an altar boy at 9th Street Episcopal, but what about Janet and Ricky Leeward?” asked Rossi. 

Gideon could answer that: “Polish Catholic, the next town over; Janet Kluszewski may have changed her name for him, but Rick Leeward converted for her.”

 “So we come back to the school again, but they were just less than a year apart; Ricky was a sophomore and Mark was a freshman, so they don’t share any teachers.”

            Hotch looked like he had been struck by lighting. “Not any current teachers, no, but what did you say about Mark, that he been G and T for a while, that he was taking advanced math classes?” Gideon caught Hotch’s glance, and knew where the young man was heading.  “Ricky’s algebra test. He’s regular sophomore, Mark’s on the honors track. What he’s taking now, Mark would have taken two years ago. We need to get back to their school, compare the full class-loads of all that math department’s teachers.”

            Alex, as always, brought it back down to brass tacks: “And let’s not forget the Ketamine. I mean, yes, this is a farm town, but there has to be only a small percentage of people who have access to that class of drug, right? “

            Jenna smiled. “Exactly. And even more than that, this is someone familiar with its effects, that knew how to use it, to put it in pizza and diet Pepsi.  Not enough to kill the boys, but enough to knock them out and make them docile enough for what he had planned.”

            Something else struck Gideon: “And combined with the Ketamine, I’m guessing that fine ligature, the one he bound their ankles and eventually strangled them with? Will be something like baling wire, something you can easily find on a farm.”

            Now they had a profile, now they had something to work with, and the well-oiled machinery of the BAU snapped into action.

            “Cina, there was that veterinarian we met during the Brentano canvass. He’s probably delivered or operated on nearly all of the animals in town, Go interview him. Find out what he knows. Sheridan, you and I will go give the Waverly PD the profile.  Jason, you and Hotch go down to Waverly-Shell Rock, and get that teacher list. We know what we’re looking for now, but we also know that this guy is organized, he is highly motivated, and only waited a week in between Mark and Ricky. We need to get this done, now.” ****

 **  
**


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Waverly, Iowa, 1999, a man kills two boys, only to walk away free and kill another one.”- Hotch, _A Real Rain._ Every agent has their own ghosts.

**West Bremer Avenue, Waverly, Iowa**   
****

Hotch gripped the Crown V’s oft-reluctant steering wheel. Gideon recited out loud, almost wistfully, what they had learned in their visit to the traumatized high school.  “Martin Therkorian, 45.  Has taught geometry, algebra, calculus, and AP calculus at Waverly-Shell Rock High, for almost twenty years. Lived in Waverly all his life, went to high school here. Went to college locallly, over at Wartburg. Goes to church with the Brentanos, at 9 th Street Episcopal. And for the past ten years, he has led the local 4-H club.”

            Hotch finished the darker end of that sentence. “…Giving him access to baling wire, and putting him in contact with every veterinarian, not only in Waverly, but in all of Bremer and the surrounding counties.” As the car neared the house of Martin and Debbie Therkorian, Gideon looked over at Hotch’s grip on the steering wheel. The young man’s knuckles had turned almost white.

            “Hotch. You remember what Dave said when we called, right? We are interviewing him. Interview only, and if he looks good for it, we return with what?”              
             “Backup.”

            “With _backup_ , and bring him down to PD.”

            “I was on the extension during that conversation, yes, thank you.”

            “Just checking.”

            The car was quiet.  And then Hotch smiled. But it was a joyless, contemptuous thing. “4-H. Four-H. Head, Heart, Hands, and Health.” He paused, seeming to let the corrosive irony sink in.  “I was in it once, you know.”  Was that Hotch volunteering personal information? Best to pounce on the opportunity.

             “No, I didn’t. So you were going to be a farmer, huh?”

             “Only for a year or two. My parents thought it would be good to get me out of the house once in a while, get my head out of the books and ‘a little color in my cheeks.’ ”

             “Why’d you stop? From what I saw back at Ms. Leeward’s, you’re pretty good with animals.” Hotch looked over, and slightly quirked an eyebrow.

            “The animals, I was fine with. It was the kids that were too much effort. I was always better with adults than with children my own age.”

             If Gideon had a dime for every time he heard that line out of a BAU recruit… “You seem to have gotten better at it since 4-H.” 

            Hotch broke eye contact at that, switched back to the road: “Not really. I’ve just learned to hide it better.”

            “You and Sheridan and ‘Cina seem to get along pretty well.”

             “That’s different.”

            “I don’t see how, really; we may grow up, we may look different, but a lot of times it comes back to those learned social responses, the ones we perfect, or not, in middle and high school.”  Gideon stole a glance over at his teammate; was he imagining things, or was that something approaching resentment coloring Hotch’s features?

            In any case, the young man shot back. “So, once a ‘good boy’, always a “good boy’?”

            “Yes, I guess that is what I’m saying.”

             “We’re here.”

            They had indeed reached their destination. 227 West Bremer Avenue. And as the houses always did, it looked completely normal on the outside. One-story, mid-sized, beige siding, green shutters, and a bright red door. The receptionist at the high school said that Martin had called in sick that morning, blaming a respiratory virus that had been traveling around the school system for about a month. Hotch walked up the gravel and stone walkway, and knocked on the red door. No answer. He knocked louder; “Mr. Therkorian? It’s Agent Hotchner and Agent Gideon, from the FBI? We’d like to talk to you about Mark Brentano and Ricky Leeward.” Still no answer. Gideon noticed a wrought iron gate to the right side of the house. He got Hotch’s attention, and pointed quietly, making a “back door?” motion. Hotch followed immediately. Slowly, they made their way around to the back of the house.

            A neat back yard; not well-manicured, but mowed recently, what with the onset of spring. They turned, and looked through the sliding glass door into the Therkorian household. From their vantage point, they could see into the den; a brown recliner was faced towards the television, and a man was sitting stark upright in it.

            “Mr. Therkorian?”

            “Agents. The door’s unlocked. Come in.”

            Hotch  opened the door, and stepped gingerly over the threshold. Gideon followed. 

            The young agent decided to take the bull by the horns. “We’re interviewing all of the teachers at Waverly-Shell Rock, especially those who might have insight into Mark and Ricky’s lives. The receptionist told us about your cold, I hope we’re not disturbing you…”

            Hotch’s sentence trailed off as the dingy brown recliner swung around to face them. Martin Therkorian was dressed spotlessly, in a nice but not extravagant brown suit, matched with a dark green tie. His hair was close cropped, Marine-style. And he was cradling a double-barreled shotgun in his lap. Looking at it. Stroking it.

            Jason’s heart immediately started pumping twice as fast. Before he even realized it, his Bureau training had kicked in, and he was pointing his sidearm. Hotch had done the same.

            Jason tried using the calm tone of voice that meant to show suspects he was indifferent, when really he was terrified. “Now. Mr. Therkorian, we’re just here to talk. Nothing big, nothing strenuous, just talk.”

            It didn’t work: “No. You’re not here to talk. You’ve come for me. You’ve come for me, and I’m ready to face it. Ready to face the whirlwind, face the fire, face the trials.” Therkorian picked up the shotgun, and raised its barrels toward his mouth.

            “Why did you place them so gently?”

            Hotch’s conciliatory tone stopped Therkorian mid-motion.

            “What did you say?”

            “I asked why did you place them so gently? You could have thrown them in the lake, in a dumpster, anywhere. I mean, you obviously didn’t care for them when they were alive, so why take such care with two lifeless husks?”

            Jason wasn’t sure whether Hotch was trying to antagonize Martin, distract him, or both.  Whatever he had intended, it seemed now to have backfired. Therkorian lowered the gun a foot, and pointed it straight  at Hotch’s head. Dubious as Jason was about his own talent with firearms, he would nevertheless have taken the shot. That is, if Hotch had not also been square in his sights.

            “You do not speak of them like that, young man.”

            (Why hasn’t Therkorian fired?)

            Hotch’s voice was dead calm. “Why? They’re just names, now. You made sure of that, Martin.”

            (What are you doing, Hotch?)

            “I freed them. My angels.”

            ‘We know what you did.  You couldn’t hide it from God, and you couldn’t hide it from the Bremer County coroner.”           

            Therkorian’s tone grew more desparate. “I loved them.”

            “You can’t even speak their names. Do you know why?”

            “Because they are not to be spoken.”

            “You know their full names, Martin.”

            “No.”

            “Name them, out loud.”

            “I won’t, I won’t, I will not.”

            “ Mark Edward Brentano and Richard Benjamin Leeward, Junior.”

            “ My angels.”

            “They weren’t angels, Martin. They were boys. They were good boys, and they trusted you, and you betrayed them. And you can shoot me now, but you’re going to have to live with that for the rest of your life.”

            “No. No no no no no….”

            At that, Therkorian lowered the gun. He placed it on the side table, curled in upon himself, and began to weep.

 

************


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Waverly, Iowa, 1999, a man kills two boys, only to walk away free and kill another one.”- Hotch, _A Real Rain._ Every agent has their own ghosts.

Hotch and Gideon lowered their sidearms. While Hotch headed for the pitiful Martin, carrying handcuffs, Gideon grabbed his radio, exiting to the backyard for better reception.

            “PD, this is Agent  Gideon. Agent Hotchner and I are bringing in Martin Therkorian.”

            He heard the radio being handed to someone: “Gideon, this is Rossi, I thought we were just interviewing him.”

            “Well, that was before he pointed a shotgun at Hotch’s head.”

            Silence.

            “Are you both all right?”

            “We’re fine, Dave, Hotch talked him down. The kid’s got some real talent, though I kind of wish I hadn’t had to see it like this.”

            “We’ll talk about this later, I think.”

            “Yeah, I think so.”

            A moment later, Hotch and Therkorian emerged into the Iowa sunlight. All three were silent on the walk back to the Crown Vic. Hotch put the still weeping man in the back seat, and he and Gideon leaned against the car door.

            Jason had no idea what to say, really.  As usual, the first thing that came to mind was a joke.

             “You know, it’s usually not company policy to goad a suspect into shooting you.”

            “I’m aware of that.”

            “What were you thinking back there? I know you’re going to have to tell Rossi later, but I honestly want to know.”

            “What was I thinking?”

            “Yes.”

            “That suicide was too easy a way out. He took all choice away from those boys. Letting him choose his own punishment, die by his own hand… it seemed too gentle for him. Now Mark and Ricky have their day in court.”

            “He could have shot _you_ instead, Aaron. That was the third option.”

            “He wouldn’t have. He’s too much of a coward to have done that.”

            ‘You didn’t know that at the time.” 

            Hotch didn’t answer that, as they got back into the car for the drive back to PD.

  
****

**August 18 th, 2000 – FBI Headquarters, Quantico, Virginia**   
****

“Get me a sandwich, and cola, you will.”

            “Alex.  Seriously. It is too hot for me to take much more of your dubious Yoda impression."

            “ * pakoosh* Give in, young Hotchner. Yield to the power of the Force.”

            “Oh no. Not you too, Jenna.”

            “Feel your power. Only your annoyance can destroy me.”

            “Get sandwich, or do not get sandwich. There is no salad.”

                  Gideon watched from his office - well, they called it an office, while really it was a cubicle with a roof and some drywall.  He watched from his office, as Hotch, despite his best efforts, broke down laughing. As his team made the most of the midday downtime. He had been taught, and he hoped had taught others, to enjoy these rare lulls, as they did not come too often.  In fact, it seemed that there had been categorically fewer of them since he had taken over the unit 6 months ago. He sincerely hoped Dave was enjoying the fishing and the traveling; somehow, the man had also found time to write a book, a draft of which he had sent to Gideon last week. If he had been a paranoid man, Jason would have believed it possible that the psychopaths out there kept track of such things, and ramped up their activities when Rossi retired. But he knew it was more likely just the summer months; heat tended to bring out irrationality in the sanest of men.

            The phone chirped; heanswered to find the sweet voice of Ramona Kelly, the office’s receptionist, on the other end.

            “SSA Gideon? You have a call from the Bremer County D.A. on line 2? “

            “Put it through…thank you, Ramona.”

            Bremer County? Bremer County, Iowa. Ricky and Mark. Martin Therkorian. They should be around the grand jury stage by now. Why were they calling him? This couldn’t be good.

               *********

            Gideon stepped out of his office into the bullpen, feeling more than a little numb.

An alibi. An alibi. The wife stays away for months after Therkorian’s arrest, and reappears…with an alibi for both murders.  Allowing her husband to recant his confession, claiming mental instability. Certainly, Martin’s mental state, then and now, had not been the most stable, but he had been deemed competent by the court-appointed psychiatrist. 

            But that was it, then. An alibi was worth its weight in gold, compared to all the weight of profiling evidence his team could come up with. That was it.

            How was he going to tell his team? How was he going to tell Hotch, in particular, that Ricky and Mark’s day in court would never happen? That the faith which lead him to place his life in front of the hands of a lunatic with a double barreled shotgun… was misplaced.

            “Gideon? What is it?”

            Sheridan had noticed their boss standing silently at the edge of the room, and had known immediately something was off. Jason flattered himself that not many people could read him like a book, but Alex happened to be one of the few.

            “That was Iowa on the phone. The Bremer County D.A.’s office.”

            Jenna, a cop for so many years, knew the timing of homicide proceedings down to the day. All color immediately drained from her face. She looked over at her other colleague, who had turned similarly pale.

            Hotch stood up, and as he spoke, his voice was deathly quiet.

            “Something’s wrong with the Therkorian case.”

            “His wife. She alibied him for both murders.  He recanted. They don’t have enough physical evidence, so the case is being dismissed.”

            Hotch looked up at the ceiling, and then down at his feet. He sat down heavily at his desk; he was silent.  Alex and Jenna looked at him with sympathy, and then went back to their work.  Gideon decided it would probably be the better part of valor not to say anything at all. He retreated to his office, but watched the young profiler as he attempted to return his attention to the file at hand.

            Hotch was listed in his file at 6 feet, two inches; but at that moment, curled in upon himself like Martin Therkorian? Gideon had never seen the man look so fragile in his entire life.

   
*************


	7. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Waverly, Iowa, 1999, a man kills two boys, only to walk away free and kill another one.”- Hotch, _A Real Rain._ Every agent has their own ghosts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

Epilogue   


 

 _“In the desert_   
__

_I saw a creature, naked, bestial,_   
__

_Who, squatting upon the ground,_   
__

_Held his heart in his hands,_   
__

_And ate of it._   
__

_I said, "Is it good, friend?"_   
__

_"It is bitter – bitter", he answered,_   
__

_"But I like it_   
__

_Because it is bitter,_   
__

_And because it is my heart."_   
__

_-Stephen Crane_   
__

**St. Louis, Missouri, 2001**   
****

He hadn’t known what to say then, and Jason didn’t know what to say now, crouched on the cold tile floor in front of his colleague and friend. There had been cases since then which had struck Hotch hard, but that was true with all of them. The nature of the job meant there were cases that required more than the usual amount of time to bounce back. Waverly, however... Gideon had almost been able to see the armor plating grow around Hotch’s psyche. The way he played up his already laconic nature when dealing with cops and fellow agents; the quieter tone he took when taking to family members. He still did smile more than people gave him credit for, though, but only when he thought nobody was looking.

            What to do? Perhaps getting off the bathroom floor might help. “Hey, Hotch, are you cold? Because I’m freezing just looking at you. Let’s get you out of that wet suit, at least.”

            “All right.”

            That was a start. He offered his hand, and Hotch took it. Jason pulled him up to his feet. Hotch looked steady enough. However, Jason’s rusty parental skills reappeared, and just in case, he placed a bracing hand on Hotch’s back as he guided the sodden agent to a seat on one of the queen beds. Hotch did not protest, but remained silent as Jason helped him remove the jacket, dress shirt, and pants. He wordlessly put on the grey sweats that Gideon handed him.

            Finally, Jason sat down beside him on the garish polyester comforter. If he knew one thing about Aaron Hotchner, it was pushing would not usually help. And so he waited.

            “I should have taken the shot.”

            The statement was vague enough, but both men knew what Hotch was implying.

            “You don’t mean that.”

            “Probably not. 3 years ago, I couldn’t imagine saying that, but now?”

            Hotch looked out the window, and Gideon could feel, if not see, Hotch’s right hand tremble. His trigger hand.

            “Hotch, you can’t second-guess yourself like that. You made a call. I wasn’t sure at the time, but you made the right call. I know you, Aaron Hotchner. You would have made the shot, and it would have haunted you for the rest of your life.”

            “He killed them, Jason.”

            “So, you kill him, judge jury and executioner? What would that have done? Fixed anything? Brought Ricky and Mark back to life? What? ”

            Hotch abruptly stood up, and stood at the window, looking out at the busy St. Louis skyline.

            “I was just coming down to dinner, and I turned my cell phone, to check my messages. And there was a message on there, from Kelly, back at Quantico.” The last syllables seemed to catch in his throat.

            “Hotch? What was it?”

            “It was to call the Davenport police. They arrested Martin Therkorian last night.”

            “For what?”

            Hotch looked back at Gideon, and there was a new fire in his eyes: anger. His voice shook, but this time with fury.

            “Two weeks ago, the Bremer County Sheriff found the body of a boy in Shell Rock County Park, five miles from Waverly. Bound, nearly naked, raped. Ketamine on the tox report, bruises on his knees.  A latent print on the band of his underwear matched the set we took from Therkorian two years ago. ”

            “Hotch.”

            “Matthew Milanowicz. From Waverly Junction. Twelve years old. He was only twelve years old, Jason. “

            Hotch punctuated his outburst by slamming his hand futilely against the window. But even as he did it, Gideon could see him visibly deflate, like the tirade had taken every ounce of strength he had left. Hotch sat down heavily against the wall beneath the window.  Gideon lowered himself down beside him.

            “Jason.”

            “Yeah?”

            “You know what you always say: save one life, you save the world entire? What happens when it’s the other way around?”

            “Hotch, please don’t do this. You are not responsible for Matthew’s death. You are not responsible for Martin Therkorian, or any of them.”

            “I wish I could believe that.”

            “I know, I know, you can’t. You’re not wired that way. But trust me, feeling too much is better than the alternative.”

            “How do you do it?”

            “By the seat of my pants, most of the time.”

            Hotch didn’t smile at that, but some weight seemed to have lifted off his shoulders. Just then, Gideon’s cell phone, as it usually did, picked the worst time to ring.

 _J. Plancini._   
__

“Hey, boss. Everything all right up there? ”

            Jenna kept her voice light, as always, but he could tell she was worried.

            “Yeah, Hotch seems to have caught a stomach bug. I’m going to rustle up some microwave chicken soup. You and Sheridan and…the new guy, what’s his name again?”

            “Derek. You know, I think you’ve learned it by now, and you just do that to annoy him.”

            “Possibly.”

            “Definitely. I’ll check in after we find some grub.”

            _Click._

            Gideon looked over at Hotch.  The young man looked to be holding himself awake through sheer force of will.

            “Hotch?”

            “Yes?”

            “You will get through this. I will make sure of that. If only because I will not lose one of the best profilers I’ve seen in a long time. I’m selfish that way. If you want to get some food, we’ll get some food. You want to just sit here for a while, that’s fine.”

            “Sitting sounds good.”

            “Okay.”

            “There may be long periods where I don’t say much.”

            “That’s okay, too.”

            So the two of them sat, and stared at the Clark Inn’s supremely ugly wallpaper. The insanity of Martin Therkorian would not claim another victim tonight. Not if Jason Gideon had any say in the matter.           

 **The End**


End file.
